Stand Your Ground: A Novel (12 page)

There were things he had to say, and really, if I had been stronger, I would’ve left the room altogether. Given him complete privacy. But I couldn’t leave. I had to be here for Tyrone . . . just in case.

Time passed, though I didn’t count the seconds or the minutes. I just watched my husband until he finally stood erect. His back was still to us, but I could see that he was wiping his tears away before he turned and faced me.

Now I could move toward him, and he moved toward me. We met in the middle and he grabbed me so hard and squeezed me so tight . . . it was just what I needed.

He sighed and leaned back.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No.” But he took my hand anyway, and we turned toward the door.

I held out my other hand to Syreeta, and the three of us left the room, though I was the only one who paused and looked back. And said a silent good-bye to my son.

I
t was the peace that God had given me that allowed me to have enough strength to sit. To sit and listen to the morticians talk about the next steps.

But sitting was all Mr. and Mrs. Marshall were going to get from me. Because once we left Marquis and returned to the conference room, all I could do was sit. And nod as Mr. Marshall asked all kinds of questions about caskets, and programs, and flowers—all of which came at a high price.

It was surprising the way Mr. Marshall spoke about death. As if it were an everyday occurrence. I guess for him, it was.

After what sounded like a soliloquy, Mr. Marshall pushed back from the table. “Well, now that we have all of that down, let’s take a look at caskets.”

He moved, his wife moved, Tyrone moved, Syreeta moved . . . and I stayed. When they looked back at me, I shook my head. “You do that, Tyrone.”

He nodded, then kissed my forehead. “Stay with her,” he directed Syreeta.

As they left the room, she sat next to me and held my hand.
She said nothing, at first. Then, “You sure you don’t want to go back there?”

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

She waited a moment. “Okay. But you know, Tyrone doesn’t have the best taste. I’m just sayin’. I don’t want to see my godson in some green casket that looks like we’re burying Shrek.”

At first, my eyes widened, but then when I took in the seriousness of her expression, all I could do was giggle. And she giggled, too. The two of us were a giggling glob of a mess when the Marshalls and Tyrone walked back into the room.

Their confusion was in their frowns and Syreeta and I did our best to straighten up.

Tyrone’s eyebrows were still bunched together when he sat down and said, “I picked out a nice one, baby.”

That was it! The two of us busted into a laugh that shook the funeral home’s walls.

The Marshalls and Tyrone stared at us as we buckled over with laughter. And every time I tried to stop, all I could think about was Shrek.

But finally we were able to sit up straight and our laughter turned to snickers, then just a few giggles. The Marshalls and Tyrone sat like they were the only adults in the room, and when Syreeta and I finally got it together, Mr. Marshall continued, as serious as he was before. “The last thing we have to cover is where will the services be held? At your home church?”

That sucked every remnant of laughter out of the room.

Tyrone said, “We don’t have a home church,” in a tone that made me wonder why I hadn’t addressed this with the Marshalls alone.

Because every time our home church was mentioned, every time Tyrone was reminded of my infidelity, no matter where we
were, no matter how good our marriage was now, it felt like we went straight back to that time when my marriage was closer to being over than surviving.

“Well, you are more than welcome to have the services here. Would you like to see our chapel?” he asked as if he were about to take us on a tour of Disneyland.

“I’ll let you know what I decide.” Tyrone spoke without conferring with me. On every other inquiry, we were a team. But on this one, Tyrone was the head of the household. His words were enough; my opinion didn’t count.

Because of my unforgivable sin.

“We’ll have to know as soon as possible,” Mrs. Marshall said. “We have to put the location on the program, and if you want to have it here, we have to be prepared,” she explained, as if she were readying herself to host a party.

“I’ll let you know. Tonight,” my husband said. “We’ll either have it here or at my mother’s church.”

Tyrone pushed back from the table, the signal that this meeting was over. When he reached for my hand, I breathed again. And when he held me close, I thanked God.

There were handshakes and good-byes and more condolences before Tyrone, Syreeta, and I stepped out of the room.

The halls of the funeral home were as silent as . . . a graveyard.

But then we stepped outside. And were accosted by shouting voices and blinding flashes. By the time my eyes adjusted, I saw four, maybe five people in front of us. With cameras. And microphones. Only one I recognized—Clarissa Austin.

“Mrs. Johnson!” she said. “I’m very sorry for your loss, but did you ever expect to find yourself in the center of one of these cases?”

I’d always told Marquis that there were no dumb questions, but
I wanted to turn back into the funeral home and go tell my son that I was wrong. Because this was one of the dumbest questions ever asked.

And I wanted to tell Clarissa that, too.

But Tyrone put his arm around me. “No comment,” he said as he led me with quickened steps around the side of the building.

“Are you working with the Brown Guardians to force the police to release the name of the man who shot your son?”

Tyrone shoved me into our car while Syreeta jumped into the back. Before I could catch my breath, Tyrone was in the driver’s seat, gunning the engine before he sped out of the parking lot.

As we drove away, I watched Clarissa along with the other reporters become smaller and smaller in the side-view mirror.

“What was that?” I asked, once I couldn’t see them anymore.

“Hold on.” We were about two blocks away from the funeral home when Tyrone pulled over to the curb. The car was still running, but he grabbed his cell, scrolled through his messages, then slapped his hand against the steering wheel. “Yes!”

“What?” Syreeta and I asked at the same time.

“Clarissa Austin, one of the reporters back there, worked with the Guardians and now the police are going to release the name of the man who murdered Marquis. They still haven’t said when, but we’re close, babe, we’re close. And once we know who it is . . .”

Tyrone reached over and hugged me and I hugged him back. From the backseat, Syreeta clapped.

But while the two of them were thrilled, I wasn’t so sure. Because once they had a name, what would the Guardians do?

A
lmost eight hours had passed since Tyrone had dropped me and Syreeta off.

And once again I told him, “I wish you would stay home with me.”

“You have Syreeta.”

“But I want you.”

“And I want to be here, too,” he said. “But I can’t stay here without our son, Jan. I can’t lay my head on a pillow in this house.” Then he kissed me and made a promise. “We’re getting close. And we’re not gonna stop.”

Then he dashed out the door, but like he’d said, at least this time, I wasn’t alone.

Even though Syreeta was the perfect person to be with me, I wanted my husband. So now I stood in almost the same place where he’d left me. Just standing. Just staring. Just praying.

“That’s not going to bring him back any sooner.”

I glanced up at my best friend, who’d changed hours ago into jeans and a T-shirt. She sauntered down the stairs the way only an I-would’ve-been-a-model-if-I’d-been-a-foot-taller woman could.

“Come on, get away from that door.” She guided me into the family room. “Let’s take the load off, and maybe have some wine. You got some Moscato, right?”

I nodded as I flopped onto the couch. “We have wine, but Tyrone refuses to buy Moscato. He says that’s for colored girls only.”

She laughed. “He’s probably right. But never fear!” She turned and sprinted from the room.

I had no idea where Syreeta was going, but I was too tired to care. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and wondered if I could stay this way till Monday.

Our trip to the funeral home had been exhausting enough, but everything that followed had stripped away what little strength I had. From finding out that the police were going to release the man’s name, to going to Delores’s and arranging to have Marquis’s funeral at her church, to sitting in her crowded house with friends and church members all wallowing in the sadness of this occasion, it was too much.

And it really went over the top when Raj and a couple other Guardians rode up, in full regalia, looking like they were going to war.

That was my cue; I didn’t even ask Tyrone if he was ready to leave. I just stood up and he and Syreeta followed me.

In the car, I once again gave Tyrone all of my facts and all of my opinions about the Brown Guardians. He just nodded, and said nothing. Until we got home—then he explained, then he left me again.

“Okay, you don’t have to stand and give me an ovation,” I heard Syreeta say. “A simple thank-you will be enough.”

I opened my eyes and could do nothing but smile. She held two wineglasses in one hand and a blue bottle in the other.

“Don’t
tell me you brought Moscato all the way from Germany?”

“Nope.” She handed me a glass. “This is better. Eiswein. Once you’ve had this, you’ll never drink American again!” She filled my glass, then filled her own before she sat next to me.

We clicked our glasses in a silent salute. This was no celebration, though, so we said nothing.

I sipped and then frowned. “This is really good. Smooth.”

Syreeta just smiled.

We sat and sipped in silence for a few minutes. Until Syreeta said, “This doesn’t seem right.”

“What? Me sitting here drinking wine while my son is lying in a funeral home?” I shook my head, then leaned back. “I should have started drinking a few days ago.”

“I agree. I’m surprised you didn’t drink your way through your entire wine cellar.”

“I don’t have a wine cellar.”

“But if you had one . . .”

We chuckled together.

But then the laughter left her. “I’m talking about this.” Syreeta waved her hand like she was a
The Price Is Right
model. “You shouldn’t be here all alone.”

“Uh . . . check this out. I’m not alone; you’re here.”

“But it’s just me. This house should be filled with people supporting you.”

“They’re all over at Delores’s house, remember?”

“Oh.” She took a sip. “Yeah.” Then she took a large swallow and giggled. “All them old ladies; I guess this is best, huh? Just you and me.”

I nodded. “The way it’s always been.”

More silent time passed before she rested her glass on the table and then twisted her body to face me.

“I want to ask you something. And it’s not that I will ever be able to understand what you’re going through. But there is something I don’t understand and I want to understand you.” She took a long breath and asked, “Why are you so against the Guardians going after that man and making him pay for what he did to Marquis? He murdered your son.”

I let her words settle for a moment. “I want that man to pay. I want him to rot in jail before he rots in hell.”

“So then let the Guardians fight for that.”

“I don’t like the way they fight.” Now I let my words settle on Syreeta. “Here’s the thing. In a couple of days, I’m going to bury my son, and this will be the very last thing that I will ever do for him. I wasn’t there to save him, but now I can protect him. If the Guardians get involved, what will that look like for Marquis?” I didn’t give her a chance to answer. “You know what it’s going to look like. The police will drag my son’s name through the thickest mud. And then, Marquis will always be associated with the man who didn’t get tried in the courts, but who got tried in the streets. And if he ended up d—” I paused. I didn’t even want to speak that word into the atmosphere. “If he ends up with something happening to him, what kind of legacy will that leave for my son?”

I let her think on that for a moment and she nodded a little bit.

I said, “No one else may ever understand, but I do want justice. I want a mother’s justice. I want the kind of justice that comes in the right way. The kind of justice that will show that Marquis was a wonderful young man who had his life stolen. I want the kind of justice that when people look back, Marquis’s name will stand for something. Because this was handled in the right way.”

It took her a few moments, but then she nodded again. “I get it. I never thought about how you would feel as his mom, hearing what we know the other side will say about Marquis. Now that you mention it, I don’t know how those other mothers have handled it because I’m just his godmother and if I heard anyone say anything bad about Marquis”—she shook her head—“I might have to cut somebody!”

“See? The Guardians have you talking all kinds of mess. I’m more likely to cut someone than you will ever be,” I said, dismissing her threat with a wave of my hand.

“Okay, maybe. But I’m just saying that I understand the Guardians, too. I get Tyrone and Raj. They understand that street justice is the only kind of justice you can get sometimes. That’s something that Raj used to always say to me.”

I gave her a sideways glance. “Speaking of?”

“What? Justice?”

“Raj!”

“Oh!” Even though her glass was half full, she grabbed the bottle and filled it to the brim. Then she took a swallow that half emptied the glass, sat back, and said, “Ask away.”

If she didn’t think that I would go in, Syreeta didn’t know me. “How could you—”

She didn’t even let me finish. “I know,” she said, holding up her hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but Raj really has changed.”

I chuckled, though it wasn’t because I found her words funny. “You do know that there are cemeteries full of women who’ve said the same thing?”